


The Ice King and the Star Boy

by hithelleth



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, references to canonical characters' deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/pseuds/hithelleth
Summary: Exiled to the Ice Nation lands, Bellamy Blake does not get what he expected, but everything he has ever wanted.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Roan
Comments: 30
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon-compliant up to 3x05, after which point I liberally bend canon to my will and re-purpose it to fit the needs of this story my purposes. Canonical dialogue used belongs to its original writers, no copyright infringement intended. 
> 
> Heed the explicit rating both for violence and sexual content and keep in mind fanfiction is not intended as an educational tool. Don’t like, don’t read. Back button exists for a reason. 
> 
> I started writing this in 2016 before 3x05 aired and had the majority of it plotted in the two weeks before 3x07 aired and have written 35K in about a year and a half, an then RL stalled my writing. But this story would not leave me alone and is making me think of it and try to return to it again and again, and because we only live once, I decided to make final edits and publish what I've written so far and in the process perhaps find the energy to finish it, even if it takes me another five years. ;)
> 
> What I have written (and will) would not have happened (nor won't) without mutually beneficial writing nagging arrangement with [LorienEUrbani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorieneurbani/pseuds/lorieneurbani) and brainstorming hand-holding from [evening_spirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evening_spirit/pseuds/evening_spirit) ~~(not to mention all other support, without which I might not have survived so far, from both, one from up close and the other from a thousand km away.)~~ <3

_Banishment_.

The Commander’s verdict comes as relief. He expected a death sentence, a sentence he deserves, one he was ready for.

Maybe — no, Clarke _must_ have pleaded for him.

That, too, is more than he deserves, after everything, after the words he threw at her when she sneaked back to Arkadia, the words no less awful even if they were for the most part the truth.

He sees it clearly now: the mistakes he has made, the choices he made trying to be the leader Clarke would want him to be, to protect his people, and failing.

If he had been stronger, if he had stood up to Pike, if he had seen through his own folly sooner — Monroe could still be alive, Lincoln…

He stops the train of thought right there, a knot of guilt around his heart tightening.

It was so easy to go along, though, Pike’s words sounded so right then. Now he sees the play behind them, and the thought of how he fell for them, letting out his darkness, makes him feel sick.

He gets it now — he thought he understood before, but he was wrong — why Clarke had left, now that he finds himself unable to look at his people. Their faces, despite not showing their reproach (not openly, but they must feel it; he would, were he in their place) — be it for standing with Pike or, at last, against him — remind him of what he has done, of what he has failed to do.

Hence, Bellamy welcomes the judgement.

He is one of the lucky ones, or so people in another time in another world would say, one of those who still live.

Too many died fighting, enemies real and imaginable.

Pike was sentenced to a death by a 100 cuts. A symbolic number.

Bellamy scoffed to himself. A symbolic number, indeed. He, too should be given one, for all the lives he failed to save. Of the 100 now only few remain alive.

“ _Jus drein jus daun,” the commander pronounces. “Blood must have blood. But too many lives have been lost, both of the twelve clans and of the Skaikru, to recompense for them in blood. It would mean only losing yet more lives and continuing the cycle of violence I have renounced not so long ago. But there must be punishment, nonetheless. For all the blood that was spilt by the events instigated by him, Charles Pike as the elected chancellor of the 13th clan will bear that punishment.”_

Those of Pike’s closest associates who survived were sentenced to exile among the 12 clans, where and for how long to be determined by the commander.

“ _You, Bellamy Blake, took part in your Chancellor’s acts of war, but for showing remorse and trying to rectify what you helped set in motion, you are banished as well — to the territory of the Ice Nation. Azgeda are the fiercest and the most brutal of us. You had a hand in killing the army that was to protect you against them. It seems fit to send you to live among them, so you may perhaps learn to think better of all of us.”_

Exile. It is a clever punishment, Bellamy has to give Lexa that, both depriving the exiles of what they fought for and making them live among the Grounders in order to get to know them and their ways and maybe lose their prejudice that way.

He sees Clarke’s influence in this sort of Lexa’s rationale, the same influence that once made him a better man, for a while, until he was left to his own devices — but now he doesn’t blame Clarke for that anymore.

It is him. It is all on him, has always been. Therefore…

_Banishment._

Banishment among the Ice Nation might just as well be a death sentence, for all he knows.

He embraces it, anyway, because it is as much mercy as he can take.


	2. Chapter 2

Time seems surreal in Polis, days passing in a haze despite the fact that for the most part Bellamy doesn’t have anything to do but think and wait, wait for the verdict, for the Commander to pass the sentence, and to witness Pike’s execution.

Just another few days on the ground, full of struggle and bathed in blood.

Bellamy packs the few belongings he has brought with him to Polis and is allowed to take with — apart from weapons — in a few minutes.

Kane and Clarke come to say goodbye when the Ice Nation delegation sets off, though Kane does most of the talking, clasping his shoulder before they depart.

The journey brings back the feeling of reality, maybe because it is uneventful.

The King addresses a few rough-spoken words — of which Bellamy discerns only _heda_ and _Skaikru_ — to their companions, directing a pointed look at Bellamy, his tone leaving no doubt of a command to which the others give a hasty acquiescence. After that no one pays any particular attention to him, the backdrop of the sounds of nature and their movements occasionally broken by the Grounders’ conversation lulling even his thoughts to a halt as miles and miles vanish beneath his feet and the air grows colder with each new morning.

When the King’s entourage reaches the Ice Nation capital, Bellamy tenses in anticipation of some sort of an unfavourable turn of events, imagining the word of the Commander may mean little so deep in the Azgeda territory when set against the contempt and hatred towards Skaikru, even if people here may not have yet heard of his personal wrongdoings.

The King, who has been walking towards the back of the group, with Bellamy never far away, moves to the front as they enter the capital, indicating to Bellamy to remain beside him.

Unsure of what to expect, imprisonment or assault or any other unpleasantness, Bellamy keeps his face a stoic mask, trying not to show the fear and anxiety grappling at him since walking at the head of the procession appears alike a walk of shame, a road to another trial, a crucifixion. But to his surprise, despite an occasional angry glint or murmur, people seem to be more curious than hostile, and while they come nearer as the entourage passes, many following behind, the shouts and stones — not only metaphorical — that Bellamy readies himself for never come.

The housing becomes steadily denser and taller as they proceed until they reach an open square and the King stops on the steps of an edifice that must be his palace, with white pillars and ornaments that make it both more beautiful and more imposing than the Commander’s tower in Polis, in spite of being many times smaller.

The meaning of the King’s speech to the people who have flowed to the square behind the King’s retinue is yet again lost to Bellamy, despite the few familiar words among which he hears his name, and he can only hope there is nothing sinister behind it.

The King keeps it short, though, only a few sentences, after which he turns inside, motioning for Bellamy to follow whereas most of their escorts disperse along with the people, having clearly been dismissed.

“I have informed my people the Coalition stands and there is to be peace, and that you are our guest,” the King explains as they climb many flights of stairs, possibly eight or nine.

On the top floor, the King leads into a hallway, pointing through an open entrance.

“Your quarters. I’ve sent a word ahead, so all should be ready. I think it best to keep you close for now, for your safety — should anyone feel inclined to disobey my and Heda’s orders — and for mine.”

 _In case you try to do something stupid,_ is left unsaid, but Bellamy understands it well enough, nevertheless.

“Besides,” the King adds, “the Commander said you should learn and there’s no better place to do that than from the centre of things.”

There is a tightening in his expression, and a thought crosses Bellamy’s mind that, however ironic it may be, the Ice King does not like being in the spotlight.

The expression flits across his face as fast as it has appeared, replaced by a barely-there smirk as the King turns to leave, finishing in an almost teasing manner, but not malicious: “So, make yourself at home.”

***

Bellamy waits until the King disappears through the door at the end of the hallway before he enters what is to be his designated home for the foreseeable future.

The quarters must be right next to the King’s, he figures, taking in the layout. There is even a connecting door, albeit locked, behind which he can hear the movement that sounds a lot like the measured steps he had become all too familiar with on the road.

The place is better than any Bellamy has been to, including his home on the Ark. Especially his home on the Ark, where the lack of resources that demanded everything be recycled, reused, and re-purposed over and over allowed only for absolute necessities, everything subjected to functionality. In comparison, these quarters come with rugs, tapestries, and furs to ward-off the cold and an attached bathroom, although the water has to be carried up in buckets.

He guesses regular people don’t live in such comfort — no, _luxury_ — and while the thought adds one more pebble to the load of guilt on his shoulders, it is almost a relief to think that this treatment of him as of a true guest, so contrary to what he expected that it must be deceptive, must be yet another reason for people to hate him.


	3. Chapter 3

For a while, Bellamy keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The all but hospitable reception with the assurances of safety and the comfort of his quarters is too good to be true, and when things are too good to be true, they never end well, not for him.

Well aware that he is at the mercy of the man who would have once killed him if it hadn’t been for Clarke (he remembers with a bitter mix of gratitude and resentment her begging for his life and — for all she knew — trading her own in exchange), he feels uneasy, his muscles sore from constantly tensing in the anticipation of a turn-around at any moment: an assault, imprisonment, torture, death.

It might be no less than he deserves, but if everything is just some sort of a charade for the Commander, if someone is going to kill him, he would rather they get it over with already and be done.

Instead, as days turn into weeks, no such thing happens.

***

The King’s idea of keeping him close entails Bellamy attending the meeting of the King’s Council the next day, followed by some sort of a public audience.

Apart from occasional curious glances, little attention is paid to Bellamy, and standing or sitting for long hours, listening to the intelligible conversation in foreign language, leaves him with nothing else to do but observe.

The King looks somehow out of place in the imposing throne room, at least to Bellamy’s eyes, for he lacks the sense of self-importance or arrogance that Bellamy used to see in the Councillors on the Ark, from Jaha and Kane in his Ark days to Pike… but he stops that particular train of thought when he catches himself at it.

Something about the King looks to Bellamy as if he couldn’t care less about his role in the formidable surroundings, yet that doesn’t take anything from his image of a leader, quite the opposite.

The Ice King might be new to the role, but there is no doubt of his unwavering command. He listens more than he speaks, his face mostly blank if not for an ever-present hint of a smirk, but when spoken his words drive the point home.

Or so Bellamy learns soon, after the King introduces him to Dor, who is to be his language teacher, the following morning.

The bulky man is a few inches shorter than Bellamy but with battle scars and traditional Azgeda markings on the face with a perpetual expression of slight annoyance.

That and the temper which comes out during their language lessons as he substantiates his explanations with wild gestures and raised voice are in a stark contrast with the seemingly endless patience of the Azgedan scholar.

Dor drills the words and grammatical rules into Bellamy with no meanness while tapping his foot on the floor or drumming his fingers on the nearest surface and if he skimps on the praise, it only makes it that much more deserved when he does give it.

“Well done, sky boy,” he says, and that is how Bellamy learns what the word — _skaiskat_ _—_ he sometimes hears people use when referring to him means.

“It's because you don't have any scars,” Dor explains, waving his hand in front of his face. “Only boys who haven't yet seen battle are without scars among Azgeda.”

Bellamy doesn’t say he, too, has scars, hundreds of them, only they are not on his skin, but etched deeper, the scars that sting more with each day he spends there, as the fear for his life and well-being subsides.

The first few weeks pass in a rush.

There are Council meetings and public audiences Bellamy attends, staying in the background, sometimes paying less attention than he should.

On one of such occasions, when the Council considers yet another one of the Coalition’s agreements that Bellamy tunes out of for a minute, a word brings his attention sharply back to the matter at hand.

There is a map lying on the table.

Dor, who also has the task of being his interpreter, drones quietly in his ear about a treaty that would grant the Sky people the use of some farm land near the border in exchange for their knowledge of farming techniques and technology.

Bellamy hardly hears anything more, his eyes tracing the path of fingers on the map —

“That’s a minefield,” Bellamy cuts in without thinking.

At once everyone looks at him, falling silent, several faces scowling with reproach at the fact that he dared interrupt.

The King merely quirks his eyebrow, however. “Explain,” he prompts.

“That field along the border,” Bellamy nods towards the map, “Pike, um, we rigged it with mines in case of an attack…”

“So we’ll pick those mines out,” an elderly Councilman called Enri scoffs, his words scraping with harsh consonants, and the rest of the Council murmur in agreement, already turning away to continue with their proceedings.

“You can’t just simply pick the mines out.” Bellamy resists rolling his eyes. At least the King and a few others must have some notion of what mines are, as the King raises his hand to let Bellamy continue.

“You step on them, touch them wrongly, even just slightly disturbing them is all it takes sometimes to make them go off. Puff, you _die_ ,” Bellamy explains with probably less patience than he should.

“And why should we believe any of this?” another Councilman asks after the King repeats what Bellamy said in Trigedasleng.

“Because it’s _my_ people’s lives on the line, too.”

There are too many lives on his conscience already. He can’t say, can’t wow, not even to himself, that no one else will die because of him. But at least for now he can try to spare those he can.

“Do you know where the mines are?” the King asks.

“The minefield, yes, the individual mines, no. I wasn’t there and even if I had been, it’s impossible to remember the exact location for each mine. You will need a metal detector to find them. But I’m sure with this treaty Arkadia will be glad to help with that.”

He spends the next half an hour trying to outline the minefield, a hard task, since the Azgedan maps are different than the ones he’s used to, but he tries his best.

“We’ll send a messenger to Arkadia for one of your maps,” the King decides when Bellamy mentions it, which reminds Bellamy that Pike must have marked the minefield, probably even the mine coordinates in his files, and he says so as well.

With that information the messenger is dispatched without delay, returning a few days later with the documents which Bellamy confirms as the right ones, helping align the coordinates with those on the Azgedan map, so that everyone will know which area to avoid until clearing of the field can be arranged.

When not in meetings of some and such sort, the King heads out to survey various places, inspecting the capital and its surroundings part by part. Bellamy guesses he is not the only one who is learning, for the King must be catching up to speed with matters of Azgeda as well, having been away for so long due to his own banishment imposed by the Commander. (And if the slightest notion of kinship to the formerly exiled King occurs in his mind, Bellamy pushes the thought away.)

Bellamy is regularly part of the King’s company, even though that sometimes consists only of four, the other two being Dor and Za, the Secretary of the King’s Council.

On one of those excursions out of the city they are caught up in a downpour that soaks his clothes through and through, and with his other change of clothes still drying after having been washed, Bellamy has to put on Grounder clothing. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, albeit for disguise. But that first time among the Ice People when he dresses like them and nobody as much as blinks at it is when he comes to the startling realisation that he has begun to settle into some sort of life there.

That is when the nightmares come back.

_He feels every cut inflicted on Pike, all hundred of them._

_(Pike remains Pike, the resolve of a man who still believes he did what he had to in his eyes never wavering, even when his body betrays him and he can_ _’t keep himself from screaming in agony. Instead of him, Bellamy is the one who breaks into a thousand pieces for what they have done, although only on the inside.)_

_Bellamy doesn_ _’t look away from the dying man, can’t, mustn’t. In a way, it is how he shares the blame, but it is more than that, though he hardly needs to be reminded of all the blood on his hands._

_He can feel it, thick and smelling of rust; he sees his hands and his face bathed in it. He wakes up screaming._

The first time his screams bring half a dozen guards running to his quarters, pointing spears at him as if he were the threat as he springs into a sitting position drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.

When they figure out what has happened, they withdraw their weapons, murmuring to each other and leaving him to himself.

He expects to be met with scorn — which he would prefer to pity — the next day, but he gets neither. If anything, he gets a feeling that the attitude towards him eases a little, though he can not explain it.

_Pike’s punishment is doled out by representatives of the 13 clans, most of them people whose loved ones were part of the massacred defence force sent to protect Arkadia. Some of them glance at Bellamy, their eyes glinting with loss and pain and hatred, and Bellamy takes it all, fills himself with it, because it is what he deserves, just as he deserves Pike’s cuts._

_He knows this sort of justice won_ _’t bring the families of the dead the peace they crave just as it hasn’t brought it for him. After Gina, after those who died in the Mountain, only grief remains and three hundred and some more dead. There is no relief, no satisfaction in vengeance._

_Pike_ _’s death won’t end their torment, nor Octavia’s._

_His sister is the one who who comes forward for the Skaikru. She slices a vicious slash under Pike_ _’s collarbone and the sight of his sweet sister becoming this feral creature makes his stomach turn, the nausea lingering long after he wakes._

The next time he wakes up from a nightmare, no guards come. It takes him a while, though, to come to his senses enough to become aware of the King standing in the connecting doorway, his silhouette almost melting into the shadows of the unlit room.

“You okay?” he asks when seeing Bellamy spot him, startling him further.

“Fine,” Bellamy stutters automatically, then adds: “I’m sorry.”

It is silly to apologise for having a nightmare, but Bellamy feels like he has to — it is another flaw of his to add to the pile.

Roan shakes his head. “It’s fine. Happens to everyone,” he says.

Bellamy lets out an involuntary scoff.

“We, Azgeda, we are warriors, trained to be brutal — it’s how we survive. Doesn’t mean it’s easy. Doesn’t mean some things don’t affect us,” the King says.

Bellamy has no response to that and lets silence fall between them, although it is not uncomfortable. Just when the King turns back to his room, Bellamy nods, mostly to himself, his “thanks” followed by the door closing.


	4. Chapter 4

Bellamy happens to get into working on the levees by a chance incident during the King’s inspection of the riverside works.

He stands by the King, listening to his conversation with the construction manager and making mental notes of the things he wants to ask Dor about later as he examines the endeavour.

As per what Dor has already told him, the enormous dikes, the hight of three or four men at the least, were either built from scratch or enlarged by Azgeda decades after the bombs had fallen, when the old dams broke and the river started flooding. The levees now protect the city not only from high water levels but also from the harsh northern winds to some extent. However, they need constant repairs and maintenance, so the work never ends.

The lengthy portion they are looking at showed leaks at the end of the spring water high and must be fixed before winter to keep the following spring flooding at bay. A part of the levee in front of them is especially badly damaged; it is cracked open, revealing giant boulders and concrete blocks at the centre, reinforced with wooden beams and somewhat rusty girders.

The materials must have been re-purposed from the collapsed old buildings, carted to the riverside by cattle just like those at present: small boulders and rocks to go on the big ones, with rods, crowbars, and beams in between, then even smaller rocks, stones, and branches, and at last the smallest rubble, a mix of twigs and sand and earth to fill the gaps, with soil and turf as the final layers to seal the entire structure watertight.

Long wooden ladders are propped up on the levees to allow access for the men and women stacking the materials in place, and a system of ropes, wheels, and levers along with a few impressive pulley-crane devices is in place to transport the materials up to the very top.

Kids of different ages are everywhere, the sight that doesn’t surprise Bellamy anymore, since he learnt Azgeda have a hands-on approach to raising children, with kids of all ages, apart from the teens old enough to be in the full-time final stage of warrior training, following their parents or other older relatives at their daily tasks.

This sort of arrangement allows parents and caretakers to keep an eye on the kids and spend time with them without their work being disrupted. And children are relatively safe while also learning the skills they would need later in life while they at the same time contribute to the efforts of others according to their age and ability, from older children working as apprentices and younger kids running messages, bringing drinks, handing out tools, or looking after the youngest and playing close enough to adult supervision.

The site is anything but quiet, the work accompanied with all sort of sounds: talking and shouting, thumps and thuds and hammering, and continuous creaking and squeaking of carts and cranes and pulleys.

Something in the pattern of creaks coming from a great pulley-crane near where they are standing disturbs Bellamy and he tunes out the conversation at his side as he narrows his eyes at the structure, trying to pinpoint the source of his unease.

Two men are pulling on the ropes, moving a large bucket of rubble up to the levee and Bellamy’s gaze follows the bucket as it rises up to the crane’s horizontal arm where a lever is devised in a such way that it shifts the load so it can be further transported to the spot directly above the levee where it is needed and let down.

Just before the bucket reaches the highest point, Bellamy sees it: the shifting lever has slid out of place. Almost at the same time the crane gives out an unusually loud creak and its arm tips over toward where but a few steps away two small boys sit on the ground, building something resembling the crane from rocks and twigs.

_Kids on the construction site, for fuck_ _’s sake!_ Bellamy is seriously reconsidering his assessment of the Grounders’ upbringing even as he launches forward without a second thought, yelling, “Watch out! Run!”

He almost falls upon the kids, pulls them on their feet and shoves them away from the crane as they scream, probably more scared of the _skaikru wanlida_ than of the real danger, and scuttle away.

Bellamy more feels than sees as the King and other men around him lurch for the crane, which is now leaning askew.

Warnings in Trigedasleng resound in the air and people scramble to get away from the crane as the men grab for the ropes or lean against the crane’s stand-posts to support the structure, while a couple of teams jump in with long forked poles they use for girder placement and readjustment.

The effort is not enough to stop the whole device from crumbling, but it slows the collapse and directs it so that the crane falls on the cleared-out area as the partly disengaged horizontal arm sways and pulls the rest of the structure down with it.

The crane crashes partly on the levee and damages it anew, but at least no one is hurt, as far as Bellamy can tell as he looks around, coughing and catching his breath much like everyone else.

“Good eyes, _skaiskat_ ,” someone slaps Bellamy on the back, almost knocking him over.

“Sorry,” the man — Arne, the construction manager — apologises, Bellamy can’t say if for the gesture or for the moniker. “You saved my son,” he adds, nodding at the older of the two boys who now approaches. He ruffles his son’s hair, speaking with him in their language while the boy eyes Bellamy with wariness.

After the child runs off, Arne addresses the King, explaining they are a couple of men short due to one falling sick and an apprentice leaving for army training. “Another set of hands would help,” he finishes, pointedly looking at Bellamy.

Roan takes a moment, giving Bellamy a pensive look. “It’s up to you,” he says.

Surprise flits over Arne’s face, but the man shakes it off. He turns to Bellamy, repeating the suggestion, “So, what do you say, Sky, I mean — ” He pauses.

“Bellamy,” Bellamy offers. He deliberates, then decides. “Sure. I could use some fresh air, I guess.”

***

He doesn’t really miss fresh air; Bellamy gets plenty of it accompanying the King on his errands. However, he has started itching with restlessness, not from boredom, but from not actually _doing_ anything, and the new occupation comes just at the right time. So, he fits helping out on the levees into the time slots when the King doesn’t require his presence and settles easily into the working routine.

Bellamy welcomes the physical exertion, but even more so being only one of the construction team, not having to call the shots, simply doing his part. It reminds him of the life on the Ark with everyone’s tasks and roles carefully planned and established, leaving no space for uncertainty.

He hated that on the Ark: the sense of fatefulness, having his life predetermined by his birth with little chance of changing his fortune. Yet, working on the levees reminds him of the few good things about it, of the days on the guard when his chances of bettering himself were looking up.

It was sometimes while on duty when his mind would become blissfully empty of everything apart from the job’s requirements, when for a few hours he could almost believe he was just a guard on the rise, no sister he shouldn’t have had hiding in a hole to worry about.

The work on the levees reminds him of that same feeling when he has to focus on the tasks at hand and everything else — the political plays and survival, Arkadia and Polis, Pike and hundreds of dead and those that remain alive and hate him, and the uncertain fate that awaits in a blurry future — disappears from his mind.

At first, people meet him with doubtful looks, the work-hardened men mostly of a bulkier frame than he and women likewise something fierce clearly having little faith in his contribution to their efforts. But when he pulls his weight, getting the job done just like everyone else, he becomes one of them, even though they show their acceptance with the ribbing that covers up the recognition hidden beneath which Bellamy doesn’t allow himself to acknowledge.

In the spare hours between meetings, expeditions, and work, Bellamy continues having language lessons with Dor. His head is spinning with novelties and when he asks Dor questions out of the linguistic area, he finds the man just as willing to explain other matters as the language-related ones, and their lessons start doubling as history, culture, and politics classes.

Dor sometimes asks about the life in the Sky in return, frowning at Bellamy’s answers, and the irony of mutual criticism doesn’t escape Bellamy. His own horizons expand as he devours new knowledge, sometimes engaging in serious debates about various issues, not only with Dor but also Arne’s construction crew he gets close to.

He finds himself enjoying it.

It is too much.

The realisation that he has somewhere along the way made something akin to friends — he hardly dares to think the word — hits Bellamy like a punch in the gut, twists inside him with a sick feeling.

Acceptance, friendship, enjoyment — this is not why he is here. The exile is supposed to be his _punishment_. (Although, somewhere in the back of his mind he hears Lexa’s saying words such as _learning_ and _thinking_ _better_. But she couldn’t have meant it this way.)

Maybe that is why the nightmares persist. None of it — working his mind and body to exhaustion — drives them away. No matter how hard he pushes himself, he still finds himself unable to fall asleep, tossing and turning even as every muscle in his body hurts, or waking up screaming in horror from some dream that most of the times wasn’t a dream at all.

Sometimes there is Roan lingering in the connecting doorway, leaving after he asks whether Bellamy is okay, or only looking in for a second, retreating without a word when he sees there is nothing to be alarmed about.

“Your sister is fine,” the King says one night. He is leaning against the door jamb, having showed up moments after Bellamy has shot into a sitting position, choking and gasping for breath, his heart thundering in his chest.

“W-what?” Bellamy stares at him, confused.

“You were calling out in your sleep. O, that’s your sister, Okteivia, right?” Roan explains.

Bellamy nods.

“She is alive, safe,” Roan tells him.

_Bellamy is on the Ark, on_ _guard_ _duty on the floating deck when they drag Octavia in, his whole being screaming as he watches her being shut in, the door opening_ _… But no sound comes out of his mouth, his feet frozen to the floor as O gets sucked out of the airlock —_

No. That didn’t happen, of course.

“No. She’s not.” Bellamy’s voice comes out strangled. There are tears on his cheeks, he realises, wiping them off with the back of his hand.

“I’m sure we would have gotten a message if something were to have happened to her.”

“No,” Bellamy shakes his head. “She might be alive and safe,” — _as much as anyone can be on the Ground_ is what he doesn’t say — “but she’s not okay,” he elaborates, the image of her coming forward before Pike all too vivid in his mind.

The King contemplates the statement for a moment, then gives a short nod. He leaves the door open as he retreats to his room, looking back over his shoulder.

“A drink?” he offers.

Considering, Bellamy really could use one.

“Sure,” he says. He scoots off his bed and pads over after Roan.

Bellamy finds the room similar to his own, furnishing and all, only somewhat larger to accommodate a sitting area with a cupboard in the corner.

The King pours two glasses of dark golden fluid — Bellamy has learnt the various sorts of liquor the Grounders brew by far surpass any concoction, illegal or not, of his people — proffering one to Bellamy as he motions him in.

Handing over the glass, Roan leans against the frame of one of the wide bay windows overlooking the city and Bellamy follows his example, taking up the other side of the window as he takes a swig, relishing the bittersweet burn of the liquor down his throat.

Roan makes no further attempts at conversation, and Bellamy appreciates that. He looks out into the shadows of the city — the crescent moon gives but little light whenever it emerges from behind the clouds — and focuses on the taste of liquor in his mouth, washing away the remnants of fear and pain that threatened to rip his heart apart as he saw Octavia disappear into space in the nightmare.

Bellamy murmurs his thanks after finishing his drink and puts the glass down on the window seat, to which the King nods his acknowledgement but stays in place as Bellamy makes his way back to his room, closing the door behind him.

***

Night talks become something of a habit.

Sometimes they don’t actually talk; Roan simply hands him a glass and they drink in silence before going back to sleep off what is left of the night.

At other times they sit down in the evening before calling it a day, too wound up with the day’s proceedings and work to think about sleeping just yet, and the King draws him into discussions about everything from Arkadian customs to Bellamy’s opinion on one topic or another, trading the stories and views of the Ice Nation — and his own — in turn.

Those are comfortable minutes, hours even, for there is something calming about Roan, perhaps his iron, but not unbending will with which he rules, making quick decisions when needed, but neither rushed nor rash, his judgement fair even when harsh. Bellamy can respect that, and he sees that the people do, too.

(On the dikes, he overhears some anything but flattering accounts of Queen Nia’s rule that don’t surprise him. What does surprise him is the hope he sees in their eyes — Bellamy wouldn’t expect the supposedly warmongering Ice Nation to be happy with the prospects of a peaceful future — and, even more so, the fact that they entrust him with the tales.)

Still, those quiet moments aside, Bellamy can’t quell the restlessness that drives him on.


	5. Chapter 5

“You should take it more easy,” Roan says.

The comment makes Bellamy straighten from where he has just slumped into a chair with his elbows propped on his knees, rubbing his face with both hands.

Roan shrugs. “Just saying.”

Bellamy shakes his head, _I_ _’m fine_ at the tip of his tongue. But he is bone-tired — and more than that, soul-tired — and Roan watches him with guarded concern that says he won’t press the matter.

Which may be exactly why Bellamy sighs and, standing up and leaning against the wall by the window, admits: “I can’t.”

“I see.”

The King mirrors Bellamy’s position on the other side of the window, regarding him seriously.

“Then, if you allow me to be blunt,” he says, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I think you need to get laid.”

Bellamy splutters. “Sorry?”

Roan smirks. “It’s one way to release some tension. And you could have your pick.” He gestures vaguely around.

Bellamy gets the meaning; he has noticed the interest himself, both from women and men, some less subtle than others.

“Or, you need something more?” the King continues, reverting to a serious tone.

Bellamy narrows his eyebrows in question, although maybe he shouldn’t encourage this line of conversation but rather make an excuse and leave or at least change the topic, however…

“To submit, let go?” Roan suggests.

All of a sudden Bellamy finds it a lot harder to breathe.

The King doesn’t miss his reaction, but he makes a barely-there shrug and goes on steadily: “I’ve seen warriors, commanders who would lead men to victory, merciless, efficient, but afterwards, when they came home… couldn’t stay still, sleep, eat. For some, it helps if they have a lover they trust to unburden… in some way or another, sometimes by surrender, pain, or something else. There’s nothing wrong with it if it helps you feel better. ”

At loss for words, Bellamy looks away, out into the night, before meeting Roan’s eyes again.

The King studies him for a bit, before he resumes: “I can give that to you. But you’re gonna have to say it.”

“I…” Bellamy clears his throat.

“You don’t have to. To make it clear,” Roan adds. “You may be exiled, but you are neither my prisoner nor slave,” he scowls with distaste at the last word, “but if you _want_ to, all you have to do is ask.”

It is not something Bellamy hasn’t thought of before. After all, he is red-blooded and not blind: to say the Ice King is good-looking would be the least, and that combined with his personality — of course he has thought about it; he just hasn’t thought it was an option.

Bellamy swallows hard, letting his head thump sideways against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. Because now that it _is_ an option… His blood is already rushing south, and he can’t help but notice the bulge in Roan’s pants when he glances at him.

Roan clearly catches him looking, but doesn’t react, and, fuck, that sort of self-restraint does something for Bellamy.

“Please,” the word escapes Bellamy before he can think further.

Roan detaches himself from the wall, slowly, carefully. “What do you want?” he asks, quietly.

Bellamy takes a deep breath. “Fuck me.” His voice comes out rougher than he expected.

He doesn’t look away this time, a thrum of quite another sort of tension starting low in his gut and spreading over his body as Roan walks towards him.

Roan watches Bellamy closely before he leans in, not breaking the eye contact as his lips, a little chaffed, tasting of Azgedan scotch, meet Bellamy’s. He coaxes Bellamy’s lips apart and dives his tongue inside his mouth, although only for a taste, barely giving Bellamy the time to catch up and respond, nipping at Bellamy’s bottom lip before he pulls away.

“Tell me what you want,” Roan repeats.

This would be the time to reign himself in and find an excuse out of it. Yet, even as Bellamy thinks about it, it is not what he wants. What he does want is —

“Against the wall?” Bellamy suggests. He likes that — the cool, solid feel of stone — even just leaning against it, which is what prompted the idea, anyway. “From behind,” he says, then takes another deep breath. “Don’t be gentle.”

Roan nods. “We’re gonna need a safe-word for that.”

“Colours?” Bellamy squints. “It’s…”

“I’m familiar with the concept. And, just so we know how far we can take this, I don’t have any diseases. You?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “No.”

“Good.”

Roan searches Bellamy’s face for a little while, before inching still closer. His hands find their way to Bellamy’s hips, then under his shirt, his fingers digging into Bellamy’s ribs, and Bellamy finds himself relaxing back against the wall, calm washing over him under the gaze of Roan’s piercing grey-blue eyes. The King tugs the hem of Bellamy’s shirt up, scraping blunt nails over his nipples, sending sparks of desire straight to Bellamy’s cock as Bellamy gets the hint and pulls his shirt off.

Roan takes a step back.

“Pants,” he prompts, then leaves Bellamy to undress while he retrieves a cloth from the bathroom and a jar from his nightstand, placing both items within his reach.

He stops in front of Bellamy, taking his time to run his eyes over him, and Bellamy’s skin heats up at the hungry appraisal.

“Turn around,” Roan says at last, accompanying his words with a circular motion of his hand.

As Bellamy does so, Roan splays his hand on Bellamy’s back, pushing him to bend forward, pulling his hips further back at the same time, and Bellamy props his forearms on the wall and rests his forehead against them, giving in to the sensation of the air prickling against his exposed skin and the aching urge in his hard, heavy cock.

Roan withdraws his hands to scoop up some lube, then nudges Bellamy’s legs further apart, gripping his hip with a firm hand.

Bellamy shudders at the feel of Roan’s fingers probing at his butt hole, then pushing inside, first one, then two.

It has been — no, now that he thinks of it, it hasn’t. It only seems as it were years ago. But even if he doesn’t count fooling around with Murphy that one time, it hasn’t been that long since the Ark.

_A dark corner, a guard from another section, the end of the night shift, both just trying to will away hunger and tiredness and blow off some steam that would otherwise dangerously explode elsewhere; Bellamy doesn_ _’t even remember who it was, some poor sod who might have died in the culling, or the coup, or when the Ark was brought down to the Ground._

It was less than a year ago, not ages, as it would seem.

“Stop thinking,” Roan says, his voice soft. It is still a command.

_Right_. Bellamy closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Roan’s fingers inside him, scissoring and rotating, and then Roan brushes his prostrate, and, fuck… Bellamy’s cock twitches, already leaking pre-cum.

It is embarrassing how fast this could end, but then it has been a while since he came by anything other than his own hand. (It has been months: before the exile, before… _Gina_ _’s bright sweet face, her lips frozen in an O —_ )

“You’re still thinking,” Roan growls into his ear. He presses into Bellamy’s prostrate and Bellamy’s knees buck momentarily as his mind goes blank but for the sparks of pleasure shooting all over his body as Roan finger-fucks him, holding tightly onto his hip, probably leaving a hand-shaped bruise there, to prevent Bellamy from rocking himself back onto his fingers.

“You could probably come just from this, huh?” Roan rasps. “Maybe another time. Touch yourself now.”

Bellamy groans with relief as he wraps his hand around his cock without delay, pumping it fast while Roan continues to fuck him with his fingers, trying and failing to match Roan’s rhythm as tension builds up in his groin.

“That’s it,” Roan praises. “Come now.”

As if he needed only these words, Bellamy can only manage another couple of tugs before he comes into his hand while Roan keeps massaging his prostrate through it.

Spent, Bellamy leans hard against the wall as Roan withdraws his fingers, wiping them off into the cloth he brought, before nudging Bellamy to turn around and do the same while he discards his garments.

Having wiped off his hand, Bellamy lets the rag fall to the floor at the sight of the other man finally naked, fucking gloriously naked. His mouth waters as he watches Roan slick up his cock with slow, deliberate strokes, and Bellamy’s own cock stirs right back to life.

Roan returns the looking with just a hint of a smirk, his eyes a dark storm and still water surface all at once, then crowds Bellamy against the wall. He cups the nape of Bellamy’s neck with one hand and kisses him. With his other hand, he strokes the bruise forming on Bellamy’s hip, the soothing motion mixing with a bit of pain, dizzying as much as Roan’s tongue licking into his mouth.

They are both breathless when they break the kiss, but Roan hooks his hand under Bellamy’s leg, pulling it over his hip, and lines up, pushing inside, eliciting a moan from Bellamy as Roan’s cock stretches and fills him. Roan tugs up Bellamy’s other leg as well, so that Bellamy ends up wrapping both his legs around his waist while Roan presses him into the wall to support his weight, pinning Bellamy’s wrists above his head, his grip bruising, and the moan Bellamy makes comes out as a whimper.

“Okay?” Roan grits.

“Yes,” Bellamy breathes. “Please,” he begs, needing more — more of something, more of everything — but he doesn’t have to say anything further as Roan starts moving. The angle makes Bellamy see stars every time Roan’s cock hits his prostrate, as the man crashes his mouth over Bellamy’s once more, and Bellamy yields willingly, responding to the strokes of Roan’s tongue in sync with the steady rhythm of Roan’s hips as he fucks him.

Roan teases his nipple with his free hand, twisting and pinching and sending jolts of electricity right down to Bellamy’s groin, before releasing his wrists so he can readjust their position, reaching between their bodies and wrapping his hand around Bellamy’s cock as Bellamy’s hands find purchase on Roan’s shoulders, meeting his movements.

Everything else fades away as Roan picks up his pace and Bellamy gives himself up to just feeling: Roan’s cock inside him, the fire erupting at the base of his spine, Roan’s calloused hand on his cock, jacking him off in time with his thrusts, Roan’s mouth travelling down his throat to his shoulder, sucking marks into his skin, assuaging the small pain with wet swipes of his tongue and then biting as he pounds into him harder, winding him up tighter and tighter… And then Roan scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin just above his collarbone and _bites_ and Bellamy falls apart, plummeting in a free-fall as he comes, undone.

Roan keeps sucking and biting at the crook of Bellamy’s neck as he fucks Bellamy through his climax but his movements soon become erratic and before long he thrusts into Bellamy one last time and spills inside him.

Time blurs for Bellamy.

His whole body feels limp, shivering with aftershocks now and again, and Roan’s body, securing him against the wall, as the other man rests his forehead against Bellamy’s shoulder, panting, is all that keeps Bellamy up right.

After a while Roan pulls out, untangling their limbs and catching Bellamy as he sags against him, his legs not quite up to holding him.

Roan brushes his knuckles over Bellamy’s cheeks, and only then Bellamy realises they are wet from tears, but Roan murmurs soothing words — although their meaning doesn’t reach Bellamy in that warm, safe place where he doesn’t need to think that Bellamy has sunk into — and manoeuvres him over to the bed.

Basking in a feeling he isn’t used to, one of utter serenity, enveloping him both from the outside and inside and making his eyelids droop, Bellamy doesn’t bother to move any further than that, letting Roan clean them both up with a wet cloth. When Roan gets into the bed himself, Bellamy curls into his side, though, half by accident, half by instinct, but Roan rumbles his approval — “It’s okay, sleep,” — and pulls him closer; he strokes Bellamy’s hair as Bellamy burrows his face into the crook of his neck and throws the covers over them before sleep claims them both.


	6. Chapter 6

His face buried in the pillow, Bellamy drifts between sleep and wakefulness, revelling in the feeling of near-weightlessness, until an attempt to stir and stretch brings him into consciousness. An onslaught of memories hits him at the heavy pull of his muscles, memories of stone and flesh and fiery pleasure and the abandon that followed.

The recollection alerts him both to the lingering contentment in his body and to Roan’s presence beside him — close enough for Bellamy to feel the heat emanating off of him, but not touching — and another memory flashes through his mind, of falling asleep moulded into Roan’s side… _Fuck_.

With a groan, Bellamy blinks his eyes open into the early daylight flowing into the room, turning to his side to look at Roan.

The King’s eyes are closed, but he must have been awake already, since he angles his head at the movement, peering at Bellamy through hooded eyelids.

Before either of them can say anything, though, a dark shape jumps on the bed, startling Bellamy into a half-sitting position for an instant until he grasps the situation.

“ _Blek, of_ ,” Roan commands, his voice laced with sleep.

The cat — for that is what the creature is: a giant, _fluffy_ , nearly all-black _cat_ — hisses at Roan in response.

“ _Of,_ ” Roan actually growls at the cat, pointing with his hand. The cat growls back, glaring at Roan, then swishes its tail and jumps off the bed.

Dropping back on the bed, Bellamy can’t help a laugh escape him as he witnesses the exchange.

_The mighty King of Azgeda being defied by a cat._

Roan half-scowls at that, but smirks then.

“This,” Roan points at the cat, who has now jumped on the window seat and turned its back on them, “is Black. A couple of years before…,” he pauses, clearing his throat, “I left, a cat had a litter in my room, all grey tabbies, except this one. I think one or two others are still around, too, and their mother — she likes to hang out near the kitchens.”

Bellamy nods; he has seen the old cat as well as a couple of others around the palace — and now that he thinks back, he has seen a shadow much like the one currently perching on the window seat rush as swift as wind from his own room once or twice.

Seeing cats inside the homes of the Ice People took Bellamy aback in the beginning, but he quickly understood the Ice Nation don’t keep the cats as pets; cats protect food and other stores from rodents and certain kinds of vermin, and that function warrants such importance that the doors in the palace come with hatches-like narrow plates on hinges near the bottom, so that cats can freely pass everywhere on their hunt for prey even when the doors are closed for privacy and security.

“The kittens took a special liking to this floor, but this one seemed particularly partial to my quarters,” Roan continues. “When I returned, I found him still prowling around here, making himself at home. Almost cut him in half with my sword the first morning he jumped on my bed like that.”

Bellamy can well imagine that — the King still keeps his sword ever within reach — and says so.

“I’ve mostly dissuaded him from doing that since. But I guess he was curious today,” Roan casts a glance at Bellamy. “Anyway,” he concludes, “Black has a habit of coming to enjoy the view from my window in the morning.”

A pause stretches between them, until Roan turns halfway towards Bellamy and asks, “How are you today?” There is the same hidden concern in his eyes Bellamy has glimpsed before.

_Okay. Better._ Neither sounds quite right, though, not so much for not being true, but for being temporary. However, Bellamy does feel rested, despite being sore in all the ways he isn’t used to; he has slept through the night not only without a nightmare, but without a thought — something he can’t recall when was the last time it happened, if ever.

“Good, for now?” he settles on what’s closest to the truth.

Roan studies him, then nods.

“I, um…” Bellamy starts.

“Don’t,” Roan stops him before he can fully form his thoughts into something that would probably end up being an expression of gratitude.

He shrugs as Bellamy frowns.

“I wasn’t entirely selfless,” Roan says. The darkness in his eyes says more, something about want that finds an echo in Bellamy that doesn’t need words, so he only grimaces in return, pulling his lips into something like a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for a longer time since the last update, this chapter required more editing (or, actually, rewriting) than I'd thought. And that might be the case for (some?) future ones, too.

Azgeda are full of contrasts.

They subject themselves to extreme hardships in addition to those imposed upon them by the unkind environment in order to strengthen their minds and bodies to survive the most difficult of circumstances. Yet, they enjoy some amenities Bellamy would have once believed to be beneath them as well as luxuries people on the Ark could have only dreamed of.

“ _It is not the same being able to endure and having to,” is the explanation Bellamy receives early into his stay. “We train ourselves to bear the cold, hard work, long journeys,_ gonplei _. But a starved man cannot fight long, and one who is already cold before he walks out into a snow storm meets_ wamplei _sooner than the one who has before sat by the fire._ _”_

Water, for example, is plentiful.

Some buildings have roof-top reservoirs for catching rainwater with crude filtering systems of sand and stones and plumbing functions on gravity well enough to flush the waste water out. The only trouble is lugging it inside in the buildings without reservoirs or with greater consumption than the reservoirs allow, such as the palace.

_The day of his arrival, Bellamy declines the offer for a hot bath, reluctant to make people do extra work on his behalf, especially on something he can manage without, thinking he needn_ _’t add to his unpopularity by taking advantage of what he considers an unnecessary extravagance._

_Which Rika, a rather intimidating_ _— despite being a foot shorter than him — woman, introduced as the chief palace housekeeper, takes as a mortal insult._

“ _You too good for hot water?” she hisses in his face. “Don’t want to make work for us? We are no warriors, we have no fields to grow food, we earn what we need with our work in the palace. You don’t make work for us, we must go away. Who gives us food and other things then, a?”_

_And then she verily spits in front of his feet while he backtracks, reconsidering the situation, and tells her that he would very much like that bath._

Bellamy has learnt the lesson.

Hence, after Roan stretches, gets up in one liquid motion, and pulls the bell for hot water, Bellamy doesn’t hesitate to do the same from his own room.

He has finished dressing when Roan knocks on the connecting door left ajar.

“Breakfast?” he asks. “I’ve had it brought up.”

There is no morning Council meeting that would double as breakfast time scheduled for that day, so Bellamy was going to hunt down something to eat in the kitchens. This alternative sounds better, though, if for nothing else, for sparing him a minute or two, and he accepts it easily, following Roan to sit down at the table laid with the usual array of cold meat, bread, and hot drinks.

Black, who has left his perch at the window, sits on the floor at Roan’s feet, staring at every bite he takes and on occasion glancing towards Bellamy, until Roan throws him a morsel which Black devours in a blink of an eye. Then he licks his mouth, stretches his front and hind legs, and marches away without sparing them another look.

“Ungrateful bastard,” Roan mutters, but there is fondness in his voice.

***

The day goes as planned; while Roan spends the morning with the army as he does several times a week, Bellamy works with his levees team until an hour after lunch and then joins the King’s meeting with a party that arrived from the west just that morning.

In the last couple of weeks, there has been a steady flow of comers and goers of a similar type, chieftains using the lull at the beginning of summer to travel to the capital, give reports of their regions, have their harvest dues determined, and the disputes they couldn’t resolve on their own settled by a higher authority.

The latter is the topic of the afternoon’s session in the throne room. After matters of dispute are resolved, mostly to the satisfaction of the majority of the involved, unless that would be unjust, the chieftains’ accounts and the allotment of dues are left for the next day, and a celebratory dinner is announced.

Bellamy passes the hour before dinner with Dor, going over new language he has just heard, revising some old, and learning a little about the region the day’s arrivals come from.

Although not long by Azgeda standards, the newcomers had a difficult journey from their forested hills with a maze of rivers, lakes, and bogs, laden with the remainder of their dues: tools and weaponry crafted over the winter and tanned hide and furs. They brought the surplus of the latter for trade, finished products being especially sought-after and finding new owners quickly.

Dinner is a celebration in name rather than length or glamour. Soon after the customs of hospitality and the corresponding tokens of honour towards the host, the Ice King, are observed and people have had their fill of food and drink, everyone disperses to their sleeping quarters.

Bellamy and Roan scale the stairs exchanging a few words regarding the day, nodding at each other as they head to their respective rooms, although once inside, Roan opens the connecting door without delay.

After rinsing off the remains of the day’s work and changing, Bellamy makes his way to Roan’s quarters, the man himself emerging from the washroom shirtless, his hair damp and hanging loose. He pours them each a glass and Bellamy takes his, leaning against the window frame as he takes a gulp.

If for a moment a sense of dread seizes Bellamy that now might come the end of normalcy, it vanishes just as fast when Roan remarks on the clouds outside bringing in a storm, and conversation flows from there.

“It could be just a one-time thing,” Roan mentions sometime later, setting his empty glass down. His tone is causal, but there is cautious care in his eyes and the statement is also a question.

“Yeah, no.” Bellamy answers without thinking, then squints at Roan. “I mean, unless you don’t…”

“Not exactly selfless, remember?” Roan takes Bellamy’s glass from his hand, their fingers brushing, and puts it away.

He stands so close, too damn close, the proximity reminding Bellamy of how it felt being even closer, touching — or rather — being touched. When Roan reaches for him, his hands finding Bellamy’s sides, the contact sends a current through Bellamy that makes him shiver.

“Bed,” decides Roan. He tugs Bellamy’s shirt off as he walks backwards to it, his fingers skimming over Bellamy’s ribs, then crawls over Bellamy as he lies back, and drags Bellamy’s arms up to place his hands on the headboard rail.

“Gonna keep them there or do you want me to tie’em up?” Roan asks.

The suggestions sends a bolt of arousal straight to Bellamy’s cock, but he shakes his head. “I’ll keep them here.”

He curls his fingers around the rail, holding tight as Roan descends upon him, hands and mouth and teeth orchestrating his body to sing with want and tightly-wound pleasure even before either of them is fully undressed, and then winding him up further until Bellamy’s cock is throbbing with the need to come when Roan at last pushes inside him.

Bellamy’s mind has blanked out long ago, letting him only feel now, skin against skin, Roan’s hard, relentless hands on him, his teeth scraping Bellamy’s nipples, the small but such a good pain when the other man laves at his bruises, old and new.

Heat coils in Bellamy’s groin, sparks igniting as Roan starts hitting his prostrate, again and again, picking up his pace.

Bellamy is a blabbering mess — “Let me hear you,” Roan has said at some point — not quite able to grasp the appreciative the sounds, perhaps words, the other man is uttering in return as he fucks into him, one hand wrapped around Bellamy’s cock, moving quick and urgent now, and Bellamy climbs up that last steep slope of building pleasure and then erupts in thick ropes between them as Roan’s hand pumps him dry before the thrusts of his hips lose rhythm and he empties himself inside Bellamy, collapsing on top of him.

After they disentangle and Roan heads to the washroom for a wet cloth, returning with one for Bellamy, Bellamy only moves as much as he needs to clean himself up.

A silent understanding passes between them that he can stay, and he discards the cloth on the floor and closes his eyes as soon as Roan lowers himself back on the bed.

(The next morning he wakes up being spooned from behind and not minding it at all. They slowly fuck on their sides, Bellamy’s back to Roan, who captures Bellamy’s wrists in one hand and makes a new set of marks across his shoulder-blade, driving Bellamy to spill his load into his own hand covered with Roan’s as Roan comes up his ass.)

***

Bellamy is under no delusion that what transpires between them would remain secret. The fact that he is now fucking the Ice King, or, more accurately, the King is fucking him, must not escape the notice of the palace employees, who most certainly gossip.

When he first gives a thought to what that might mean for him, he panics — quietly, to himself — the old fears creeping back and tensing in his muscles but disappearing as nothing changes in the way people look at him or treat him.

However, the relief that washes over him is what shocks Bellamy more than a little.

***

They don’t bother to be quiet, just as they haven’t from the beginning.

In the evenings, they talk over a drink — or without it, like they would before.

More often than not, Bellamy’s bed stays not slept-in, unless they are too tired to fuck, in which case they part easily for the night, the connecting door left ajar.

Black takes advantage of the situation, and Bellamy now and again catches him stretched out in the middle of his bed when he comes to wash and dress in the morning. He doesn’t have the heart to complain about it.

Roan only smirks at the cat’s antics.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me put a blanket statement for the future here that I have no idea how frequently I'll be able to update this story, because RL requires its toll and also some chapters need more editing/rewriting than others. I had to rewrite this one from basically scratch, apart from the general idea, so it has, unfortunately, taken me a month. I hope you still enjoy it! Also, many thanks to my beta!

When first touring the city, Bellamy was dumbstruck when he heard about the Azgeda library.

He didn’t think a library would have survived the bombs or that in the aftermath people would find use for books, let alone read them for pleasure.

Nevertheless, despite many books having been destroyed and those remaining used for paper or left to decay, one of the early Ice Nation rulers had the wisdom to appreciate the leftovers of the bygone era and began preserving the books found not only in the capital but across the Ice Nation territory.

That resulted in a large collection which now takes up two floors of a building that had been a real library before the bombs fell, situated not far from the palace. Additionally, the palace boasts a well-stocked library of its own which, however, contains mostly legal and military material, a lot of it consisting of documents composed after _Praimfaya._

While Dor has used a few items from the latter collection as learning aids, Bellamy has not thought of reading for pleasure, not since the last, fatal attack on Mount Weather.

But now, having given a thought to Roan’s suggestions to take it more easy, he visits the grand library during a break he would otherwise use to find one or another kind of straining work.

The librarian, a different woman than the one he saw on the previous occasion, eyes him with a mix of suspicion and curiosity when he expresses his wish to borrow a book. The elderly woman with a head full of silver-streaked braids introduces herself as Greta and launches into an interrogation regarding his reading history, clearly displaying a disbelief in Skaikru’s need for books.

Once satisfied with his intentions, she leads him through the aisles of bookshelves, explaining the layout and telling him proudly that librarian-ship has been a family profession passed down through generations, from her great-grandfather to her grandmother and her father, who taught her and her sister, the job now being gradually taken over by her niece — the librarian he has seen before — and will be some day entrusted to her and her sister’s grandchildren in the future she most likely won’t live to see.

It is that story of ancestry besides his own familiarity with the ancient myths that prompts Bellamy to pick a volume of _The Aeneid_ , suppressing a pang that tugs at his heart at the sight of _The Iliad_ next to it as he remembers the copy that must lie forgotten, perhaps lost, somewhere in Arkadia.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think, comments are always welcome!


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